


A definite Do Not Archive (f/f version)

by Ruler_of_Nope_Island



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Do Not Archive, F/F, Fisting, I feel like half of these characters are their own warning, Mild Gore, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, f/f - Freeform, strap ons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-16 22:37:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13645863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruler_of_Nope_Island/pseuds/Ruler_of_Nope_Island
Summary: Magnus Archives Ladies, getting it on. In very problematic ways. Just a collection of random unedited smut.





	1. Traps and snares (Rosie X Daisy Tonner)

**Author's Note:**

> Feel like I've missed any warnings? Please let me know.

Rosie looks up from her computer and thinks: oh. Yes. Please.  
Everything about this woman screams hunter and Rosie knows herself to be easy prey. 

Her predecessor had warned her about the Institute, or tried to, and Rosie had made up her mind right there. She’d taken the stairs two at a time to get to Elias’s office and pushed the door open so hard that a picture had fallen off the wall. Then she’d dashed off to find the dustpan and brush without so much as a word, and Elias had been chuckling gently by the time she’d returned. Rosie thinks that Elias isn’t as terrifying as the other staff think he is, but then she’s good at her job and a functional human being. He’s never criticised her work in all the years she’s been there. 

And she likes feeling possessed. Not in the exorcist sense, but in the comforting embrace of something that is so much larger and more powerful than herself. Death is a certainty but worth a life of belonging. She’s never known a moment of loneliness or want for company, not as long as she is part of the Beholding. A small part. But vital. 

She masturbates to the thought of it and knows that Elias knows but doesn’t care. 

Rosie’s seen this woman before, of course. Detective Tonner. But Section 31 officers tend to be discreet and the detective had moved easily through the building like a shark through water. Now she stands there, wolfish and snarling, rage making her startling and feral. Word is she’s not police anymore. She’s not one of them, belonging as she does to the Hunt, but bound to the Institute anyway. We’ll be seeing a lot more of Ms. Tonner, Elias had said. And then he commented that she should probably put in a request for a new office chair, a remark that had mystified her at the time but she was now very, very aware that she was soaking through her knickers. And Tonner is looking at her, head cocked. Interested. Hungry. 

Rosie knows her cheeks are flushing hot. 

“Mr. Bouchard will be out for another half an hour,” she says, not bothering to keep the tremble out of her voice. “I would take you up to his office to wait but it’s locked. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“I’m fine.” An impatient growl. Rosie presses her thighs together. It’s about 2 o’clock in the afternoon, so everyone is ensconced in their offices. Her hands are sweating, almost too slippery to type. And she’s locked into Tonner’s stare, knowing that she knows what’s happening to Rosie.

Rosie crosses her legs harder but the ache of her arousal doesn’t stop. It just makes it worse. She can barely think, barely breathe. 

“What’s wrong with you?” This time it’s impatient. This time it’s angry. So Rosie, completely unable to think of anything else to do, slips off her shoes. Then she walks around to the front of her desk, pulls her skirt up to her hips and pulls her knickers down. She clambers inelegantly onto the front of the desk and spreads her legs.

“Jesus Christ,” Tonner says. But she’s smiling in a way that makes Rosie feel like she’s freezing and burning at the same time. It is not a friendly smile. Unable to stop, she begins to touch herself, eyes locked with Tonner, who is leaning back against the wall. Almost indifferent. Almost.

She knows she doesn’t have much time but when she tries to speed up Tonner tells her no, she can’t. And she moans in frustration. And Tonner laughs and calls her a freak. A brief look at the clock tells her that she’s been doing this for fifteen minutes and she wants to cry. Instead she begins to beg. Tonner licks her lips and says nothing.   
At this point her legs are shaking. Not in all her life has she been this turned on, and when she tells Tonner this, there’s a spark of interest. Keeping their eyes locked, a tumble of words emerges. 

I’ve never felt this way before. Please. I want you so badly. More than I’ve wanted anything, anybody. I want to get on my knees and crawl to you. I want to come. Please let me come. 

Tonner suddenly straightens and moves towards her, so swiftly that Rosie flinches. And then, without so much as a warning, slides two fingers inside her. She’s wet enough that it doesn’t hurt but it’s rough, careless.

“Are you afraid of me?” Tonner’s breath is hot against her neck. And then Rosie realises she is. This woman is a killer and while she’s met all sorts of people she’s never met anyone like Tonner before, not a person who’s dangerous physically. Not anyone who’d hurt her and take pleasure in it. Tonner’s fingers are curling inside her and she’s so close. Then there are teeth in the soft flesh of her neck and a rough thumb pushing her fingers away and Tonner says something about her being like a bitch in heat and she’s coming so hard that black spots dance in front of her eyes. She comes back to reality fast, though, when Tonner shoves her fingers in front of her face and tells her to lick them clean. 

“Anything for you.” And she does. Then her mobile buzzes and she twists so fast she almost slides off the desk. 

Feel free to take the rest of the afternoon off. Just use some air freshener before you go. I don’t want the foyer smelling like a brothel. And be careful please. - Elias. 

Of course he knows. But he understands how helpless she is. The utter ecstasy of submission to a will stronger than your own. 

Tonner’s hand is clenched around her wrist and she is being dragged away.

*

As it turns out, Detective Tonner’s first name is Daisy. And she’s been watching Rosie since Gertrude Robinson was murdered. And she thought that Rosie was boring as fuck but cute enough that at some point Daisy was going to drag her off into a cupboard and push that sweet, soft mouth onto her cunt. 

Daisy’s also kept her handcuffs and the cold metal bites into Rosie’s wrists, rubbing the skin raw as Daisy thrusts against her. The toy is uncomfortably large and Daisy had made her get on her knees and suck it before strapping it on and pushing inside her. Rosie’s mouth and jaw still hurt but it’s the best kind of pain. Her back is against Daisy’s chest as Daisy fucks her, because Daisy wants to bite her neck and shoulders and Rosie is willing to do anything that Daisy asks at this point. There are bite marks on her tits and bruises on her thighs and nail marks on her hips and her arse is still stinging. The brutality of it is both terrifying and arousing, all the more so because she is so caught, so possessed, and yet Daisy is detached, somehow. She could tear a million boring, pretty girls to pieces and still hunger for more. And find them, and take them back to her shitty flat to fuck them on dirty sheets. 

And of course she wants to tell Daisy this, tell her that she is beautiful and terrifying and if she was not already claimed then she would be Daisy’s forever, but Daisy got tired of her pleading and gagged her with a scarf that smelled like another woman’s perfume. 

She can still moan and whimper though, which Daisy seems to like. And she’s come more times that she can count - more than Daisy, probably, but that seems to be the point. She needs Daisy more than Daisy needs her, although her needing Daisy is like the rabbit needing the fox. 

Those fingers are back at her clit again and they are so rough, grinding rather than rubbing. And she is stretched and full and sore and as she comes, feeling hot fluid spill over her thighs and Daisy’s full body shudder. 

“I think I’ll keep you,” Daisy murmurs in her ear. “Don’t get dressed. You’re staying here tonight.”

After that she’s oddly gentle, insisting on licking the remaining traces of blood away and kissing her without even a hint of teeth. They shower together. Rosie find clean sheets and makes the bed. She briefly wonders if she’d remembered to pick her knickers up and hide them but the thought evaporates as soon as she slips under the duvet. 

Sleep comes quickly, watched and with Daisy’s arms wrapped around her like iron bars. To be possessed is such bliss.


	2. Worship (Jude Perry/Agnes Montague)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fisting, fire and feelings.

Agnes wonders idly what it’s like to have sex with people who don’t approach you on their knees. At first it made her feel powerful. That was a long time ago, though. Up until about a decade ago she found it endearing. All of her maniacs, crawling towards her, fire in their eyes but still grovelling. Now she finds it incredibly boring. 

Jude is on her knees, kissing the inside of Agnes’s thighs gently. Occasionally she uses her teeth, which is nice but not terribly interesting. Eventually Jude will put her mouth on her and Agnes will come and then someone will drag Jude away so her burns can heal. And Agnes will lay in her bed and it’ll will be like nothing ever happened. 

The problem with a destiny is you spend every minute until it happens waiting for it and it’s so very, very boring. And you try to fill those boring minutes but those minutes are actually decades and you’ve tried pretty much everything under the sun and you’re so, so bored of people looking at you with that expression on their face. The one Jude’s giving her now. Oh Agnes. You’re so special. You are so wonderful. Agnes, I never knew what I was until I met you. Agnes you saved me. Agnes. Agnes. Agnes. You can get very sick of hearing your own name, sung back at you as it was a hymn. 

But there had been that one time, just recently, when someone had said her name like it was an insult and the thought is strangely thrilling. 

“Jude.”  
Jude pulls away. The skin around her mouth is already starting to blister.  
“Yeah?”  
“What was that policewoman’s name?”  
Jude blinks.   
“What?”  
She still flinches when Agnes touches her - a sharp, needle of heat passing through her shoulder.  
“Detective Tonner.”  
“Did you get her first name?”  
“Daisy, I think.”

Daisy Tonner had glared at them both. Called them freaks. Jude and the others had wanted to kill her for that but Agnes had said no. Daisy Tonner did not have a life worth offering up to the flames. Daisy Tonner smelled of alcohol and sweat and her anger would have been delicious but the thought of binding her to the Lightless Flame when she could be out in the world seemed a waste. Agnes had followers enough. 

“Did you want to fuck her?”  
“Yes.”

One of the things that Agnes can appreciate about Jude is her lack of guile. Despite the fact that she can see into their innermost selves, some of her followers still try to obfusticate, which even more irritating than the slack-jawed devotion.

“Do you think she wanted to fuck you?”  
Jude shrugs.  
“Did she want to fuck me?”  
Jude looks at her.  
“Of course.”  
She doesn’t really trust Jude to give her the right answer because Jude cannot imagine anyone else looking at Agnes and not seeing what she sees.   
“Do you want me to bring her in?”  
“No.”  
Jude looks relieved at that. Of course Agnes wouldn’t be able to touch Tonner without maiming or outright killing her but it’s clear that Jude thinks that Tonner is beneath Agnes.   
The more she thinks about it the more irritated she gets. Why shouldn’t she make her own choices about who she wants? They’re her followers. Maybe she should get them to do what she wants more.

“Fuck me like you’d fuck her.”  
Jude, for a brief moment, looks afraid. She stands, so they’re eye to eye. She’s clearing searching Agnes’s face for something but Agnes just stares back at her.

Then Jude grabs her hair and yanks her head back. Agnes suppresses the urge to burn her right where she stands because for the first time in a long time, she feels herself pulse with sudden excitement. She gasps, closes her eyes. So she doesn’t see the slap coming, either. And this time she moans, because this is new and exciting and different.

“You little whore,” Jude snarls in her ear. “You whore.”

Agnes opens her eyes and Jude’s face is contorted with hate. Jude is slightly taller than her and her head is still being yanked back so she gets a good look. Then Jude leans down and bites her neck. Her teeth are cold and sharp.

“Harder,” she demands. Jude yanks at her hair again but bites so hard that Agnes begins to bleed, although the blood dries almost instantly. 

A hard shove and Agnes is on the floor, dazed and sprawling. Jude stands over her. 

“Do you really think you get a say in this?” The cruelty in Jude’s voice, for once directed at her, is intensely arousing. Agnes squirms; she’s wet, which is unfamiliar, and spreads her legs. 

Jude makes a good show of disinterest.   
“I wouldn’t think you’d go down so easy. But I guess no one’s been fucking you properly.”

Is she talking to Agnes or some phantom Daisy that she’s conjured up in her mind’s eye?

“Well, don’t worry. I’ll fuck you properly. I like you enough to make it hurt.”

Agnes does not reply. Like most of her trysts, she’s remained dressed, bar underwear - her followers can be so cold sometimes so she dislikes the feeling of too much skin against her own. But this time she craves it. Jude, as if reading her mind, straddles her and pulls off her t-shirt. She bites roughly at Agnes’s breasts and again Agnes has to suppress that urge to just roast her. That’s its own peculiar sort of excitement, that feeling of holding back, of repression - 

Jude puts her hand between Agnes’s legs and drags rough fingers across her clit. Agnes squirms and gasps. Her own flesh, for the first time in decades, feels uncomfortably hot and she craves a cold, firm body against hers.

“Take off your clothes,” she says, forgetting that she’s not supposed to be in control because she is being fucked like any other ordinary person. 

Jude grabs her breast, nails digging in. Something inside Agnes roars in rage and she is trembling with the effort of keeping it inside, keeping it contained.

“...please?”

“That’s more like it,” Jude says, and leans down to kiss her. The force of it pushes Agnes’s head against the floor. But she remains clothed, and the refusal is thrilling. Jude’s fingers are still rubbing against her, rough against her slick skin, too much and not enough, she wants-

The next slap is harder than the others. It’s not the sting but the impact that shocks her and for a moment both she and Jude stare at each other as if they’re both stunned that such a thing could happen between them. Jude is starting to tense up, whether in excitement or fear Agnes struggles to tell. Underneath her, the floorboards are starting to scorch. She can smell the wood charring. 

“Please,” she gasps. “I don’t know what I want.”

But she knows that Jude knows that Agnes is lying: what she wants is rough and brutal. She wants to be taken apart. Insofar as she can. Her entire body is humming with anticipation. Jude’s laugh shocks her. Then her hand is in Agnes’s hair again and she’s pulling even harder, so hard that tears come to Agnes’s eyes and turn to steam as they roll down her cheeks.

“You slut,” Jude whispers in her ear. Teeth again, this time at her earlobe.  
Liquid tends to boil around her so she’s surprised to find herself slick and wet and what’s more she can feel dampness beneath her. Jude’s fingers are grinding against her and her hair is still being yanked and she can feel herself grow wetter and and wetter. It’s so good. So much better than anything she’s had before. Jude is so cruel, so vicious - she looks up to see those eyes, dark with contempt, staring down at her. 

The tension inside her snaps. She’s still keeping the inferno inside herself contained, though, because if she lets that go then she’s certain they’ll see the fires for miles. She closes her eyes, lights dancing in the dark. She’s not quite satiated, but it’s enough that she could crawl into bed and lay there for hours, coming down from the high. She doesn’t usually bother touching herself - why would you when you have people who’d kill each other for the opportunity- but perhaps she will tonight, running her hands over her abused flesh, enjoying the novelty of pain and wondering if this is how mortals feel all the time. 

Jude has not moved away. She rakes her nails over the softness of Agnes’s inner thighs and hisses in pain when her fingertips begin to blister. 

“You said you wanted to me to fuck you like I would fuck Tonner,” Jude’s tone is flat, careful. “If I was, I wouldn’t be stopping now.”

“Keep going then,” Agnes says, closing her eyes. She wonders if all surrender will feel like this. “Do what you want. I won’t break.”

Cold can burn, too. Agnes had discovered that the hard way, when she’d crossed paths with Simon Fairchild. And although she knows that if Jude was doing this to anyone else they would burn, right now she feels like Jude’s tongue is ice, drawing circles around her still-throbbing clit. It’s pure, clean, half-pleasure, half-pain. The heat inside her, however, reacts as if it’s being fed gasoline. If she’s not careful she’ll melt Jude’s face off. Some hysterical part of her mind insists that there could be no greater honor for one of her followers; to be destroyed while pleasuring the living manifestation of their god. 

Two fingers are inside and filling her; it happened sometime in between breaths. She welcomes the stretch, the twisting. Jude is so rough with it that Agnes wonders if she treated her human lovers like this; her body will open to accommodate without tearing but others -

As if hearing her thoughts, Jude slowly pushes a third finger inside her. Agnes feels herself open and tries not to yield too much, tries to keep her flesh intact rather than parting easily. Jude’s reaction to this is to shove another finger inside her, and Agnes cries out.

Jude removes her mouth briefly, just enough time to laugh, before putting it back on Agnes’s sensitive flesh. Why wasn’t she like this before? It’s so good. Jude is using her teeth now, alternating with tongue and rough sucking and the fire inside is growing and growing and growing…  
Oh, she thinks. I feel so full. And she realises, with a strange kind of fear, that Jude must have her entire hand inside her, up to the wrist, and it also strikes her that her throat is raw from crying out- has she been screaming this entire time?

The smoke hangs in the air, heavy and choking. Flames are licking at the curtains and the walls. 

Agnes lets go. Everything she has been holding back- the fire, her orgasm, her self-control- emanates from her body in waves and she screams again, dimly aware that Jude is screaming too.


	3. Salome (Daisy Tonner x Erika Mustermann)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rough sex, dom/sub ish. Daisy doesn't cuddle. Erika, if you'd forgotten, is one of the strange students from MA:34, Anatomy Class.

There’s a place you can go to find unusual people. It’s not some creepy brothel or anything; they -sometimes feral, sometimes raving, sometimes so distant it’s like talking to someone across an ocean - are there for the same reason. To find something different from the normal morass of humans and to rub up against it for an hour or two. Once, memorably, a whole night, although that time left a mouth full of dust that lasted a week.

Daisy hates it that she comes here. Hates it that she needs to come here. Nowhere else will do for her, anymore, and she longs for the touch of others that doesn’t end in a forest and the smell of petrol. Touch is touch, whether soft and gentle like the brush of spiderwebs across your face or a burning hand pressed to your back. She just wants not to have to kill someone, one of these freaks, after an encounter. She could, of course. But power is expressed in as much in its refusal as its action. Something she appreciates more after her encounter with Elias Bouchard. 

Daisy wants to kill something but she’ll settle for fucking something instead. So she heads out to the nameless pub in the backwater suburb in never-you-mind-where; they congregate here, chasers and chased. That’s how she likes to think of herself. A chaser, a hunter. Not some kinky weirdo who gets their kicks from limbs that can bend in all the best and worst ways. 

The outside of the pub is plastered with posters; gigs from years ago, political rubbish, advertisements for strip clubs. Over that, graffitti - who sucks whose cock, who’s fucked whose Mum, and then, more esoteric scribblings. Fractals, sometimes. Dire warnings of the end times. Daisy’s in such a mood that she misses a new one; a single eye, painted over the face of a prize-winning pole dancer.

Inside is just as bad; fly corpses litter the windowsills, the floors are covered with dust, and the tables are always sticky. There is a single barmaid; a haggard woman of about forty, who hasn’t gotten older in the six or so years that Daisy’s been coming here. She looks up, nods at Daisy, and goes back to watching television. An opera of all the fucking things. A fat man sings at a girl in a white dress who is singing at a beefy, wild-looking man. They appear to be in some sort of basement-

“Isn’t art supposed to make you feel something?” A light, feminine voice. “I’m not sure.”  
Daisy turns. The young woman staring back at her, perfectly upright on a barstool, is almost offensively bland. Not a vam...one of those things that she drags into the forest and burn but something akin to it. Blond, blue eyes. 

“It makes me feel annoyed,” Daisy snaps. But that part of her that keeps coming back to this place throws its hands up in sick glee.   
“All of it or just this?” Another voice. Daisy turns again to see a group of young men and women watching her; five others, all with the same aggressive neutrality. As one, they suddenly inhale; as if, all this time, they had forgotten that they were supposed to breathe. Perhaps they had. It didn’t make a hell of a lot of difference to Daisy. She didn’t really want six at once, but the blond had split herself off from the group and thus was the best or easiest target.   
The barmaid shuffles over and slid over a glass of what Daisy knows will be a lukewarm whiskey over the counter. Daisy downs it. Then she has a good, long look at the young woman.

“My name’s Erika,” the blonde says and smiles.   
“Don’t bother,” said Daisy. “You’re not very good at it.”  
“Oh. Sorry.”  
Erika’s face slides into a neutral expression. She doesn’t seem offended.  
“Would you like to go upstairs?” she asks.

Daisy turns to the barmaid, who shrugs and goes back to watching the opera. An all-clear. Not actively harmful. Not...malicious. Upstairs there are windowless rooms with beds and nothing else. There are always others who want the same things that Daisy comes here for. She allows herself a single thought: we found the monsters under the bed and we wanted to fuck them.

“Come on then,” she reaches out and wraps her fingers around Erika’s wrist. She’s relieved to find that Erika’s skin is soft and that there’s a pulse underneath. 

The room, as it turns out, does have a single other thing in it. A laptop.   
“I want to show you something,” Erika says. She types for a little while and Daisy takes her boots off. Eventually Erika turns the screen around to face her and it’s showing some tacky girl-on-girl clip, complete with false eyelashes and long fingernails that make Daisy wince as they skate across each others’ bodies. 

“Can you show me-”  
“Yes.”

She leans forward and kisses Erika on the mouth - a mouth that is both dry and spongey. She pulls back, revolted. Thank god she’s only taken her boots off. She turns away from the thing and begins to put them back on.

“Please,” from any normal person it would be a plea. Not from this creature though. She stands up and begins to take off her clothes. The body underneath is exactly as a human woman’s should be - better, in fact. But too perfect. Daisy reaches out and touches the skin. It’s warm and soft. But there are no blemishes, no scars, no stretch marks. It’s like she came off a factory assembly line.

“Please,” Erika says. “Show me how it’s supposed to be. Show me how I’m supposed to be.”

It should make her uneasy, helping this thing to teach itself how to be more human. But there’s a fierce excitement as well, burning underneath the disgust. Fascinating and repulsive all at the same time. 

“And if you don’t like this skin,” Erika says. “I can take it off.”  
Daisy laughs and puts her hand between Erika’s legs. Everything seems to be in order, thank god. But it’s got the same texture as the inside of her mouth -

Daisy makes a choice, then.

She stands up, strips, while Erika watches her blankly. Then she takes the other woman’s hand and put it between her legs. 

“Oh,” Erika says, and smiles. “Like that. I see.”

She’s a shorter than Daisy so when she lifts her head for a kiss, she has to stand on the balls of her feet. This time her mouth is exactly as it should be. She doesn’t react to the tongue in her mouth or the finger inside her - again, everything is normal which is a fucking relief - so Daisy steps away. Erika’s eyes flicker back to the laptop.

“Can we do it -”  
“Yeah.”

Daisy pulls Erika down onto the grubby duvet. She doesn’t want Erika’s mouth on her, doesn’t trust those perfect teeth, but her hands are serviceable enough. And Erika does exactly what she’s told. The resulting orgasm is...acceptable. But what she seeks isn’t the end, it’s the means, it’s the doing. That’s what she craves; why she keeps coming back. 

At some point Erika’s expression has changed - she’s flushing, pupils dilated, breath coming in short pants. Daisy supposes that she’s merely mimicking her own arousal, but out of curiosity she puts her hand back to between Erika’s legs and what she finds there is...amusing. She’s wet and when Daisy’s thumb brushes her clit she jolts and mewls when Daisy takes her hand away. It’s a vaguely pornographic sound; in a normal woman it would come off as fake but then most normal men wouldn’t know the difference. Daisy hadn’t planned on reciprocating; it’s not like this thing would have minded. Maybe she could just walk away and leave this freak twitching and soaking the duvet. 

Erika does another porno-moan when Daisy licks her for the first time. The...consistency of what’s making this thing wet is right but it’s absolutely tasteless. A more sane woman would have found that unsettling, but Daisy doesn’t really trust introspection right now. Stop thinking, she tells herself. She places her hands on Erika’s hips and pushes them against the mattress. Then she begins to suck, very gently at first, then harder and harder. Erika grinds against her mouth, rubbing herself frantically against Daisy’s tongue, smearing that tasteless wetness across her face and chin. 

Two fingers inside and then there’s that noise again. Daisy lifts her head.  
“If you make any more sound I’ll stop. Got that?”  
Erika looks at her, clearly bewildered.   
“Why would you stop?”  
“Because you’re annoying me.”  
“But you promised-”  
Daisy removes the fingers that are currently inside and the thing looks almost on the verge of tears.   
“I don’t remember promising anything.”  
“You said we could do it like they were doing-”  
“No. We’re doing this my way. You will do what I say and if you’re very good, I’ll let you-”  
“Please,” Erika begs. “I want it.”  
“You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”  
“I just-”   
“Shut. Up.”

Daisy doesn’t bother with gentle anymore. She uses her teeth a lot more than she should, is rougher with her tongue and sucks so hard it makes her jaw ache. The thing that calls itself Erika comes; she twitches in all the right ways and the duvet gets damp beneath her. Mission accomplished, Daisy thinks. I could walk away right now. But there’s a kind of anger in her now, anger at this thing and its kind for making her want this, making her seek this sickness out. So she keeps going, alternating sucking with making little circles with her tongue, and uses her fingers as well. 

After Erika comes a second time, Daisy thinks she can trust Erika to have learned by example. She puts her hands in Erika’s blond hair and pushes her head down. Erika seems eager to demonstrate that she has learned and puts her mouth between Daisy’s legs, while Daisy tries not to think of the word devour. 

What pushes her over the edge is not so much Erika’s attentions but the sudden realisation that this thing has no idea of normal. Daisy could do whatever she wanted to this thing - fisting, finger up the arse, whatever - and Erika would like it. Beg for it. Daisy could make this thing whatever she wanted and the thing would want her to. She could control - and her entire body begins to pulse, and she closes her eyes.

Erika actually tries to cuddle afterwards. Daisy pushes her away and begins to get dressed, ignoring the look on the thing’s face. She slams the door behind her and heads downstairs.

The others are still in their booth, having seemingly not moved. Daisy goes out into the cold night air without so much as a backwards glance. She’s seen worse. And successfully scratched an itch. Now it’s off to a real pub for a real drink. And then a shower at home. And a night of untroubled sleep. 

*

The opera’s almost over by the time Erika comes back down the stairs. The barmaid, who had forgotten her own name long ago and never missed it, turns to her.  
“Everything as you wanted, dearie?”  
Erika doesn’t look at her. Instead her eyes are glued to the TV screen as a woman in a blood-stained slip dances ecstatically with a severed head.  
“What’s it about?”  
The barmaid sighs, and pauses the video to explain.   
“That’s Salome - “  
When she’s finished explaining, she pushes play. She’s been around too long to find Erika’s sort unnerving, but there is something very odd about the way Erika stares at the screen. 

Salome is dancing in a puddle of blood; her mother and Herod look on in horror. A muscular naked man watches her impassively. Salome kisses the severed head of John the Baptist and the applause begins. The show is over, so the barmaid stops the video and goes out the back to find another. Erika rejoins the others. 

“Art,” she says. “Is supposed to make you feel something.”  
“How do you feel?”  
Erika licks her lips and the others, if they could, might feel something like admiration at the naturalistic gesture.  
“I don’t know.”

Outside, the eye on the wall blinks once.


	4. Murder Lesbians in the woods, Daisy X Naomi Herne, Melanie King X????

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some non-sexual gore/torture in this one. But it's a vampire, and we all know that doesn't count.

Melanie pressed herself against the tree, willing her breathing to be slower, quieter. Usually she was good at this sort of thing; a professional career made up in part of sneaking into places she shouldn’t be and her new found indifference towards danger should have made this easy. But she’d never seen anyone die before and the last time she’d seen Daisy Tonner, there’d been a gun in her hand. Her heart was hammering away and she was actually panting, even though the journey here hadn’t been very strenuous. Still, here she was. An anonymous clearing in the forest, watching Daisy Tonner drag a writhing bundle from the boot of her car.

Thank god it was Summer and the evenings were still light enough. Daisy was distinct - tall, lean, and decisive. She was kind of hot in a Saga Noren sort of way, chiseled cheekbones and a soft, cruel lilt. But there were two other women with her; one short, slender and pale-haired while the other was much more like Daisy, except she had shorter hair and was limping slightly. Melanie inhaled and moved closer. Then reached into her pocket for her phone and began to film.

Daisy tossed the bundle into the middle of the clearing and looked down; it was wrapped in plastic but still very much alive. And human-shaped. 

“It hasn’t fed in a while so it’s not as feisty,” said the limping woman. She had a thick Mancunian accent. With a start Melanie realised she recognised her - someone back from her Ghost Hunt days that she’d met at an afterparty for another show.  
“But you know. It’s been a rough week for you and I thought you could use the...release.”  
“I can’t wait to do this to Bouchard.”  
“You keep saying,” the other woman replied. What was her name again? “But this is a bit quick for Bouchard, isn’t it? Besides, I hear there’s a queue.”  
“Can you take the plastic off?” This was from the small blonde. “I want to see its face.”  
Daisy chuckled.  
“Fair enough. Didn’t catch your name before.”  
“Naomi.”  
“Sounds like you had a lucky escape. Not many do.”  
“Not lucky-” Naomi gestured to the limping woman. Melanie tried to remember if they’d had sex or not. It had been a bit wild, that particular one.  
“Better her than anyone else. You’d be out of luck if it was anyone from the Magnus Institute. They’d watch. And then take notes.”  
“Don’t you work for them?”  
“For now.”  
“Have you ever met the Archivist?”  
There’s a lot of rancour in her voice. Melanie laughed to herself. There was something about Jonathan Sims that inspired that sort of hatred. But he was a pompous, self-righteous ass.  
“Yeah. But let’s not talk about that. It’s not what we’re here for.” The limping woman handed Naomi something - a plank of wood, about a foot and a half long.  
“Have at him, love.”

The thing on the ground may not be human but Melanie wasn’t sure what it had done to deserve that. They were there for the best part of twenty minutes laying into the thing. The limping woman brought out a glass bottle, half filled with amber liquid. It was strong; strong enough to be smelled over the sickly, coppery and all-too-familiar smell. There was more blood than Melanie believed anything could lose and survive, forming into a dark puddle beneath it. And at some point, Naomi had started giggling. Maybe it was the booze. Melanie hoped it was the booze. While she wasn’t scared, exactly, she didn’t really want the shit kicked out of her when she was alone in the middle of the forest. And it wasn’t like Daisy had anything to lose.

She zoomed in on the writhing thing. Blood - or whatever it was - was pooling inside the plastic as well, like the juice in supermarket wrapped meat. And it was still moving. There was a good shot of Daisy using a knife to cut away the wrappings around the face and then a slurry of meat and something white and hard fell away.

Melanie had to close her eyes for a moment, trying not to gag. And Naomi’s giggling grew louder, had a more hysterical edge.  
Daisy’s voice again.  
“Hey, piss off for a bit, would you?”  
Melanie opened her eyes, was glad to see that she’d kept her camera on the scene, but quickly zoomed out.  
“Why - oh.” The limping woman was giving Daisy a look, although Melanie couldn’t quite work out what it was supposed to mean. “I guess I’ll go and take a piss, then.”  
“Take your time.”  
Daisy turned back to Naomi, and, much to Melanie’s disgust, smeared a gory thumb across the other woman’s cheek.  
“There you go. You’re one of us now.”  
Naomi just smiled up at her, swaying slightly.  
“Now what?”  
“We burn the fucker.”  
Naomi took a long swig from the bottle while Daisy took a can of gasoline from the boot and poured it liberally over the thing. She got out a box of matches as well, and handed them to Naomi, who struck one and held it up.  
“Make a wish,” Daisy said and Naomi dropped it. 

Melanie swallowed and zoomed back in on the body. It was writhing, twisting and the plastic was melting away to reveal - there was a gasp and she swung the camera back up.

Naomi and Daisy were kissing. That, thought Melanie, was possibly the most fucked up thing she’d seen tonight. It was hot. But also super fucked up. Murder lesbians in the woods. This job was really cracking up to be something.

She knew she should have stopped filming and walked away. She knew that the other woman was out in the woods, somewhere, and that darkness was falling, and she needed to catch about three buses to get home. But instead she moved closer. And kept filming.

Daisy pulled away from Naomi to slam down the lid of the boot. She turned, and with strength that made Melanie both jealous and slightly aroused, picked Naomi up by the waist and sat her down on it. Then she began to strip the other woman’s clothes off.

Melanie had, at that point, made some extremely poor decisions. But she didn’t think to count this among them, since Daisy was occupied, she was hidden behind a tree, and the other woman was probably waiting out in the woods for them to finish somewhere. She propped her phone up in a nearby branch, and, with shaking hands, undid her pants.

Daisy wasn’t being gentle anymore. Melanie flinched in sympathy when she bit down on one of Naomi’s breasts, and her fingers were leaving grimy smears across the pale skin. Naomi did have a nice body, though, if a little skinny, and the noises she was making were incredible. 

Melanie slid her hand down into her underwear and began to rub herself, trying not to make any noises herself. Daisy was kissing her way down Naomi’s chest, before grabbing her legs and pushing them apart. Then she put her face between them and -

There was a hand over her mouth.  
“Hello, Melanie. Long time, no see.”  
She was pulled back against a firm body. Oh, she knew this woman, alright. And they definitely had fucked. But she was wracking her brains, trying to think of her name. She wasn’t in any condition to run, so perhaps pleading would work.  
“Hot, isn’t it? I think they both need that.”  
The other woman’s breath was hot in her ear. Melanie squirmed but was held, fast. Her heart was pounding, although there was an uncomfortable rush of blood downwards that made her a little embarrassed.  
“I don’t think it’ll take long,” the other woman continued, still whispering. “In the meantime...would you like a hand?”  
Melanie, because she was now insanely turned on and running out of options, nodded.  
The woman kept her hand over her mouth as she slid her hand down the front of Melanie’s pants and began to rub. Melanie closed her eyes, moaned - although the noise of the two women across the clearing still managed to reach her ears. She wondered, if they finished, would the other woman call them across to watch?

The hand left her mouth and slid up her top. It was uncomfortable, all of her clothing bunched up in odd places, but still. Fuck. This was so hot. And the camera was still up in that tree, recording everything...oh well. She could just edit this part out.  
“Hey Melanie?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Stop thinking.”  
The hand rubbing at her clit moved down and she sighed a little at the loss of contact.  
“Brace your arms against that tree.”  
She did, and the other woman grabbed her pants and pulled them down to mid-thigh. Now the hand left her breast and slid around to her clit, while the other slid back around her body and between her legs and there were two fingers inside her and it was so fucking good that she wanted to cry. Sure, the angle was weird, but the darkness and roughness and the moans from the other women and christ-  
“Harder-”  
“Mmm. Ok.”  
Melanie knew she’d be sore in the morning. Hell, she was getting sore now. But the other woman was kissing the side of her face and Naomi was practically screaming and Melanie thought that perhaps she should ask Daisy for tips and then suddenly she was shaking apart, an orgasm hitting her from nowhere. The woman managed to coax out a few more shivers before removing her fingers.  
“Melanie?”  
“Huh?”  
“You think you could do something for me?”  
“Yeah,” Melanie was sweaty and itchy and winced a little when she noticed how damp her thighs were. The other woman laughed.  
“Hey Daisy,” she shouted, “I found our sober driver!”  
Melanie froze.  
Daisy’s laughter echoed around the clearing. 

“Come on. And don’t forget your phone.”


End file.
